Harry, I never knew lastima could smell. Your oily odor mushes me up, as if with a mortar and pestle. Like I’m guacamole. I brought you here because I saw your photo on that email, the plea begging for your life. At the time it was your dodo-side-smile (before I could sniff you) that flattened me.
Here you are on my couch now, and you are okay. You are home. And you smell terrible. And my house smells terrible. I’m not angry about it, even though the stink is like a rotting fish. Like a rotting fished covered in moldy cheese. Like a rotting fish covered in moldy cheese that was first soaked in spoiled eggs and feet juice.
On our walk, I bend down to pick up your poop [because that’s my real job as a foster mom- I’m a professional poop-picker-upper], and as I grab it with my baggy, I actually welcome the stench of feces just so I can take a break from your “perfume”.
And I know you’ll find a forever home. And I know I’ll look back, glad to have helped you. And I know I’ll miss you then. I may actually never get your fragrance out of my pillows, which is a good thing because when you’re adopted, I can hold it to my face. Gagging and wailing and remembering you.
p.s. It’s bath time. Again.